Fragments and Pieces
by Sparkiebunny
Summary: "Metaphors have a way of holding the most truth in the least space." -Orson Scott Card. A series of post-"Appointment in Samarra" One Shots.
1. The Jigsaw Puzzle

**AN: Hey everyone! Over Christmas break, I was struck with what felt like millions of ideas that were too small to turn into anything. Then, I decided maybe they _could_ turn into something! **

**This story is going to be a compilation of sorts, consisting of post-"Appointment in Samarra" one-shots. Each chapter will be a new and different metaphor describing one of our boys or their situation. I'm not sure how long it'll be, as I'll just add a chapter each time inspiration strikes. But if anyone has any suggestions or ideas for metaphors/chapters they'd like to see, let me know and I can take a crack at it!**

**The timeline (a month or so after the episode) probably won't vary too much. I really hope everyone enjoys it! Thank you! **

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THE JIGSAW PUZZLE

Sam feels his brother's hand squeezing his shoulder, and he wonders what the hell happened to bring him to the brink so quickly. Not an hour ago, he was sitting across from his brother, arguing with one of his stupid ideas. And now, he's sitting here, staring at a cardboard puzzle, trying to find the will to wipe away the wetness running down his cheek.

Like the flick of a switch, Sam's a mess, and his mind is trying to catch up with the present, trying to understand why he feels so dark and defeated and _hopeless_. The scene from just over an hour ago flashes before him, struggling to make the connection.

**. . .**

"_Dean, this is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."_

_Dean shook his head, spreading the hundreds of pieces across the surface of the table. "Don't lie, Sam. I heard you listening to Lady Gaga in the car yesterday."_

_Sam glared at his brother darkly. "Shut up, dick, it's called the radio. If you left the dark ages and picked up an actual CD for once in your life, you'd know that."_

_Letting out a light laugh, Dean pulled up a chair and sat down across from Sam. "Either way, we're giving this a try."_

_Sam stared incredulously at the array of puzzle pieces spread out before him. Dean had walked in moments before, holding a box, then unceremoniously dumped it on the table Sam was sitting at. Dean had that 'I'm-up-to-something-and-I-know-you-know-it' grin plastered on his face, and Sam inwardly groaned._

"_What the hell is this?" Sam had asked his brother, annoyance tainting his words._

"_This," Dean said, sweeping his hand proudly over the scattered pieces, "Is a jigsaw puzzle, Sammy. And it's what's gonna keep you from biting my head off all the time."_

"_I do not bite your head off!" Sam said sharply. Dean raised his eyebrows with a knowing smirk and Sam swore under his breath._

"_Hear me out, Sam. I know it sounds crazy, but I was surfing the web the other day, and I read that one of the best ways to relax someone's noggin is to engage it in a calming activity. Case in point—jigsaw puzzle. There's been scientific study things and everything, bro. It's something with your subconscious or something. I don't know dude, but I can't take another day of your uptight bitch-boy routine, so it's worth a shot."_

_Sam had to agree, he'd been pretty short-fused lately. Ever since he woke up at Bobby's those weeks ago, with no clue what was happening or where he was. All he'd known for days was pain and confusion, and despite Dean's assurances and support, Sam was still easily frustrated with…everything._

_Still, Sam gaped at the elder Winchester. Had he lost his damn mind? "Dean, you do realize that this is what _nursing home residents_ do for fun, right?"_

_Dean sat down in the chair, smiling grandly. "Open mind, Sammy, open mind."_

_And with that, he started flipping over pieces and examining them. Too tired and unwilling to argue further, Sam followed suit, and in minutes, the two were engrossed in the puzzle before them._

**. . .**

_A little less than an hour later, the puzzle wasn't even a quarter of the way finished, pieces still spread haphazardly across the table._

"_That's it," Dean said, pushing back from the table. "I'm done. This freaking thing must be rigged or something. You were right, little bro, dumbass idea. Let's go to Mulligan's and blow off some steam. I swear this is the most frustrating stick of cardboard on the planet!" Dean huffed and stood up heatedly, knocking a few pieces to the floor._

_Sam said nothing, eyes narrowed intently at the puzzle. Dean kicked his brother's chair. "Sam, come on."_

"_You go ahead, Dean, I'll meet you at the bar later. I think I have it." Sam's eyes never left the puzzle, flicking quickly from piece to piece. His fingers slid gently over each cardboard bit, constantly spinning or moving them from one spot to another._

_Dean looked at his brother uneasily. "Dude, I think you're obsessing a bit. Just leave it, we can come back later." _

"_You can't just give up on it, Dean, it takes time," Sam said angrily. "Damnit, Dean, you can't just give up on it!"_

_Taken aback by Sam's outburst, Dean carefully moved to cover up the puzzle with the box. "Calm down, Sammy."_

"_No!" Sam said sharply. His arm shot out, hitting the box right out of Dean's hands. Dean looked at Sam, stunned. _

"_Sam," he said, a hint of fear in his voice. "You need to relax. It's just a puzzle, dude. It's not worth it, just chill out."_

_Sam's breath deepened, jaw clenched. Dean spoke again, more gently, "It's ok. It's not worth it, Sammy."_

_Sam looked up at his brother, as if seeing him for the first time in an hour. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry."_

_Then, he looked back at the puzzle, at the pieces Dean knocked to the ground. And he stared. He's not sure how long he stared for, but by the time he stops, Dean's hand is on his shoulder, and a track of moisture is racing down his own face._

**. . .**

And suddenly Sam remembers. He remembers why he's in his current position, and his mind connects the metaphor it'd been mulling over since Dean dumped the box of pieces before Sam.

His brother is still squeezing his shoulder, offering to help with the puzzle if Sam wants him to. But he doesn't understand.

Because that's not just a jigsaw puzzle. That mess of pieces and chaos and worthlessness—that's Sam.

He's just a fucking jigsaw puzzle gone awry, all rough edges and complicated curves. And in the end, not even worth putting together. Sooner or later, everyone gets sick of the frustration, the disappointment. Sooner or later, everyone gives up, and rightfully so. They grab the box, dump the little bits of cardboard, and walk away. Those damn little bits are left dirty and worn, scattered all over.

That's it. He's just a jigsaw puzzle, broken and defeated.

And he's just so damn sorry that Dean has to be the one to pick up the pieces.


	2. The Drowning Man

**AN: I'm back! I've gotten a few ideas and suggestions for metaphors people want to see, and I'm excited to get working on them! If there are any more ideas out there, let me know, I'll be happy to take a crack at them!**

**Shout-out to my reviewers: **_**xenascully**__**, **__**Cainchan**__**, **__**Writing For The Wall**__**, **__**Klutzygirl33**__**, **__**Tango Eight**__**, **__**BlueEyes444**__**, **__**KKBELVIS**__**, **__**Twinchester Angel**__**, **__**sarahsrr**_

**…All of your encouraging words mean so much! Thank you! **

* * *

THE DROWNING MAN

It was a nightmare. Dean has no doubt about it when he wakes with a start, deafened by his brother's muffled screams and whimpers. Then he looks over at Sam and sees the tears. It's the only time Sam cries.

Definitely a nightmare.

_This seems like a pretty freaking bad one_, Dean observes as he quietly rises from his bed. It's become a regular occurrence in the past few nights, and Dean only hopes it doesn't become too much of a trend.

"Sam," he whispers, lightly touching his brother's shoulder. Sam's body convulses at the contact. He sucks in a stuttered breath and his eyes fly open wide, fearfully taking in his surroundings.

"D-Dean," he whispers, as if convincing himself that this is reality. That whatever he saw was only a bad dream, to be locked away and forgotten. Never spoken of.

"Yeah, I'm here, Sammy," Dean murmurs.

Sam's face pinches tightly as the images continue to flash before him. _No, no, no, no, no. Not real. Not. Real._

But no matter what he tells himself, all he sees is blood and darkness. All he hears is screaming and pleading. All he feels is slices and rips and flames and _agony_.

_Not real, not real, not real._

His own mantra morphs into words that flow out of his brother's mouth.

"Not real, Sam. _This_ is real. Here and now. Me. _Us_. Come on, Sammy, you with me?"

_I'm not with you. I'm not with anyone. I'm _not _anyone. I'm nothing. Please, just let me be nothing._

Sam is still locked in thoughts and memories as Dean wraps his arms firmly around his sibling. His little brother. His fiercely protected comrade. His reason for life. His Sammy.

Because, damnit, he can't change what happened, but he can change what happens now. And he will. He'll fix this. Dean knows that Sam will probably have bruises tomorrow from where his arms and fingers are squeezing impossibly hard. He can't help it. He knows he's just fumbling to grasp that little piece of Sammy that's left, and he should let go or loosen his hold. But he's given so much to get to this point. He's not letting go. He will not let go.

His arms maintain their unrelenting grip.

They've both been to hell and back. They've both saved the damn _world_. They deserve at least a fraction of something that resembles happiness. He doesn't care if he sounds desperate, because damnit _they deserve that much_.

And still Dean clings to his brother like a drowning man. His arms wrap around the large frame, squeezing and holding. It's totally backwards and Dean knows it. Sam needs comforting; _he _is the one who needs support. Yet Dean is the one whose heart beats wildly, searching for something someone _Sammy_ to keep him afloat. His arms wrap around Sam instinctively, just as they had a thousand times before…long before…It's as if Dean thinks that Sam is the rescue boat, the raft, his saving grace. So he holds tight. He holds his brother like it's the last damn thing on earth that'll save him.

And Sam doesn't move, scarcely breathes. His brother's comforting arms are suffocating him and he doesn't know how to tell Dean that. So Sam doesn't even blink. He doesn't want Dean to know that he's not the rescue boat. He's not the raft. And he can't save anyone—not his mother, not Jess, not his dad, not his brother. And he doesn't even count himself, because there's nothing left to save, if there was anything there in the first place.

Sam has nothing, _is_ nothing. But Dean needs something someone _Sammy_. To keep him balanced. To keep him grounded. To make him whole. And Sam can't bear to deny his brother that. So Sam will pretend. He'll pretend that he's not nothing. He'll pretend that he's something someone _Sammy_. Despite the fact that he just can't remember how to be.

He remembers. He remembers too damn much. Yet the important stuff, the good stuff, the person he is, the Sammy he should be…He just can't recall any of it. But Dean needs him to at least pretend, because he's drowning and his only hope is his screwed-up, _nothing_ brother. His damaged rescue boat. His deflated raft. His shattered saving grace.

Sam accepts the desperate embrace with a heavy heart he's sure is devastated beyond repair. He accepts it, but he knows…it's only a matter of time before Dean realizes Sam's the anchor, dragging him down and pulling him under.

Dean's head is barely above water, and though every fiber in him fights it, Sam knows he'll only end up drowning the one thing he has left.


	3. The Walking Time Bomb

**AN: This chapter is wholly dedicated to _BlueEyes444_, who send me a small portion of it and inspired me to make it into a chapter! She's a fabulous writer, and I'm grateful she allowed me to use a bit of her talent to inspire this chap. Thanks a million, M!**

**Shout-out to my reviewers: **_**xenascully, Cainchan, Writing For The Wall, Tango Eight, BlueEyes444, **__**Lujayn**__**, Twinchester Angel, sarahsrr, **__**CeCe Away**_

* * *

THE WALKING TIME BOMB

"So where you wanna stay: Elmwood Inn or Park Plaza?" Dean asks Sam as they drive down the highway. They'd interviewed the widower of one of the victims they'd been investigating, done more research, and were ready to call it a day.

"Doesn't matter to me," Sam replies distractedly. "Hey, Dean…did that guy seem a little…off…to you?"

"The widower? What do you mean?" Dean says, shooting his brother a curious look.

"I don't know, he just seemed a little more upset than some of the guys we usually interview."

Dean shrugs, pulling the Impala into a cheap motel parking lot. "Well, you heard his story. The guy had issues, and his wife was the only thing keeping him on the straight and narrow. He's just trying to wrap his head around things, that's all."

The brothers exit the car, shutting their doors and walking toward the entrance. "Yeah," Sam says, shaking off the negative energy surrounding them. "Guess you're right."

The two check into their room, Dean settling on the bed, beer in hand, and Sam standing awkwardly at the door.

"Think I'm gonna go get some food or something. You want anything?" Sam asks.

Dean thinks about it momentarily, then shrugs. "Just a few more beers, I guess. We're running low."

The request doesn't surprise Sam, as he's noticed an increase in Dean's alcohol consumption over the last few weeks. Maybe even months. It wasn't serious, but Sam noticed. He notices a lot lately.

Sam nods, grabbing a room key and stepping out the door.

If he's being honest with himself, Sam just needs some space. Just a few minutes to relax his mind and get away from the anxious energy that seems to radiate off of Dean lately. Ever since he woke up at Bobby's, Sam had noticed a change in Dean. He's the same smartass, tough guy he's always been. And his over-protective nature hasn't changed much (though Sam will never admit how much he likes that side of his brother).

But there's something there that Sam can't quite put his finger on. An energy swirling around his brother that he can't quite name. It's edgy, yet cautious. Watchful, yet distant. It's as if Dean is waiting for something, something to do with that wall he mentioned. No one has told Sam exactly what would happen if he investigated the barrier in his mind…but he's pretty damn good at reading between the lines, and whatever it is isn't good. If the sidelong glances and hushed whispers are any indication, whatever Dean is waiting for…it's not something Sam wants to experience.

Sam walks absentmindedly down the street, a block or so away from where they'd talked to the victim's husband. He doesn't mind walking. In fact, he loves it. The fresh air, the freedom…he breathes deeply, savoring the smell of the world around him.

That's when he sees the lights. They're flashing rapidly, reflecting off of the nearby surfaces. They're the lights of a siren, but the sound seems to be muted.

Sam pulls out his cell, quickly dialing his brother's number.

"_Yeah?"_ Dean answers shortly.

"I'm on the widower's street and it looks like something's up. You might wanna come down here."

"_Be there in a few."_

Sam hangs up the phone and walks closer to the bustle of police cars and flashing lights and ambulances.

He gets as close as he can without crossing the barricade. Neighbors are gathered around in a small crowd, speaking in hushed whispers to each other.

"What's going on?" Sam asks one of the women beside him.

The dewy-eyed lady shakes her head sadly. "From what I've heard, Chris Barker, the man that lives in that house, hung himself in his own living room. So tragic…His wife just passed away unexpectedly not a week ago…"

Sam tunes out the rest and his eyes focus intently on the house. That's why there were no sirens. The man was already dead.

"Sam!" A voice startles him out of his musings and he turns around to find his brother standing next to him. "We have to go."

Sam furrows his brow. How long had Dean been there? "Why?"

"Because we were the last people to talk to the guy, genius. We've gotta scram before the cops start asking questions." When Sam still doesn't move, Dean grabs his brother's arm and drags him through the crowd. After a few urgent seconds, the two are out of the mass of people and shuffling hastily toward the Impala.

The ride begins silently, Sam staring out his window and Dean shooting glances at the younger man.

"I already packed our bags and checked out of the motel, so we're good to go. Where you wanna head next?" Dean asks, attempting to break the ice.

Sam takes a few seconds to speak.

"We should've seen it coming," he says in a quiet voice.

"There's no way we could have, Sammy," Dean replies, his voice soft and understanding.

Silence ensues for miles, until the brothers pull up to a far-away motel and stumble into their room. Each falls into a deep and restless sleep.

**. . .**

The following morning is tense and quiet, neither brother knowing what to say to the other.

But Dean can't bear the silence any longer, and that mournful look on Sam's face is killing him.

"There's nothing we could've done, Sam," he says. Sam's eyes don't leave his lap. "The guy had just lost the only thing he had. He was a walking time bomb to begin with."

Sam looks at his brother and sees how Dean's struggling to reach him. And he can't bear it any more than Dean can bear his sad-puppy eyes.

Mustering enough strength to give Dean a nod and a small smile, Sam grabs two beers out of the mini-fridge across from him. He tosses his brother a bottle and opens up one himself. Dean grins, his thoughts clear. _Crisis averted._

Sam holds the bottle in his lap and faces away from Dean, allowing the smile to slide off his tired face. _Not even close._

Dean's words replay themselves over and over, echoing in his head. Resounding in his heart.

Walking time bomb.

He's pretty sure that's what he is.

Eventually, something's going to set him off, his timer will run out and he's going to explode. Break. Shatter like pieces of a mirror. Seven years bad luck, right? Been there, done that.

He wonders if anyone will pick them back up, the pieces, and glue them back together. Maybe Dean. Maybe not. He won't blame his brother if he doesn't. Not after everything he put him through.

You see, Sam's already figured it all out. He hurts everybody he's ever cared about. His mother, Jess, his father, Madison, Bobby, _Dean…_so many times_… _

Maybe this is the punishment he deserves. To break and not be repaired. For once, to just be left the way Fate made him. No deals, no rewinds, no un-wishes. He can't stay dead, it's too late for that. But he can stay broken. He _deserves_ to stay broken.

His brother walks around eggshells around him now. They all do. He's okay with that mostly. He's learning to live with it. Better safe than sorry. Because if something sets him off, it'll be catastrophic. Not for him, but for everyone around him. Well, obviously it'll be pretty devastating for him, but how much more broken can he get, right? Everyone else, on the other hand…they don't deserve to share his fate. They shouldn't have to deal with him now, let alone if and when he goes off. He's a walking time bomb, after all. The explosion seems inevitable.

But the aftermath…the aftermath he can try to change. Damage control.

Dean clears his throat and pops open the cold beer. As he puts the rim of the bottle to his lips, Sam sees the gesture in a whole new light. Dean drinks down the liquid and tries to hide the nervous energy clouding his presence. He knows that Sam knows. But he pretends that he doesn't. He pretends that neither of them know anything, that things are simple, that their lives are finally going to be ok.

Dean pretends that neither he nor his brother can hear the incessant _tick tick tick_ of the timer. They both try to pretend that Sam isn't a bomb, that he's just a man…just Dean's little brother, and that's all that has to matter.

Dean downs another bottle and Sam looks away.

Both of them know that it's just a matter of time.


	4. The Grains of Sand

**AN1: Hey! This chapter is dedicated to **_**KKBELVIS**_**, a fantastic author who was kind enough to suggest a chapter using a 'grain of sand'. I really hope you enjoy, Karen! Thanks for the idea!**

**Shout-out to my reviewers: **_**xenascully, TinTin11, Cainchan, Writing For The Wall, Tango Eight, BlueEyes444, Lujayn, Twinchester Angel, sarahsrr, CeCe Away, KKBELVIS, **_**and**_** Marianna Morgan**_

**AN2: If any of you have suggestions or ideas, please let me know! My muse seems to have taken a break, so I'm open to anything you have to offer. Thank you! **

* * *

THE GRAINS OF SAND

Looking up from the papers in front of him, Dean looks over at Sam, hunched over his laptop, forehead creased in concentration. He can hear his brother's fingers typing furiously on the keyboard, and doesn't miss the growl of frustration a few seconds later.

"Having a little trouble, Sammy?" Dean says, smirk evident in his tone. Truth be told, he'd hit a dead end with the research as well. Holed up in another cheap motel, they'd been working non-stop for the past day and a half on finding some kind of trend in the events they were investigating.

"It's Sam," the younger Winchester huffs. "And I've done everything I possibly can. I've looked _everywhere_ for more information, but every damn time, the search comes up dry. I don't get it!"

Dean shrugs, stretching his arms high above his head and yawning. "Same here, dude. I swear, this town is where information comes to die."

"Must be," Sam replies noncommittally. His eyes are still scanning the screen in front of him. "Thank God this isn't something life-threatening. Just a bunch of dicks getting what's coming to them. Probably just a spirit with a sense of humor. Hell, maybe it isn't supernatural at all."

"I don't know, dude. Some of those guys' accounts…" Dean shudders involuntarily. "I know _I_ definitely wouldn't want to be them."

Sam's mouth rises in a half-smile, and he gives a soft chuckle. The sound is euphonious to Dean, stirring a tenderness in his chest he'd almost forgotten was there. After a few moments of watching his brother, Dean clears his throat.

"Hey, Sam," he says carefully. "What do you say we blow this popsicle stand and take a trip?"

Sam looks up, eyes narrowed suspiciously. "A trip? In the middle of a job?"

With an exasperated groan, Dean stands up and begins pacing the room. "We've been going from hunt to hunt for weeks! God, I'm pretty sure we haven't had a decent night of sleep in at least a month. That's all we do anymore. Hunt, research, eat, hunt, research, eat. Sometimes, we even forget to eat! I need to eat, Sammy. I need a nice, big, juicy quarter-pounder. With pickles. And lettuce. Extra cheese. Oh, and that honey-mustard sauce drizzled-"

"Dean!" Sam says impatiently.

"My point is we can't keep this up anymore. We're gonna go crazy," Dean continues. "We need a break. Remember the old days, when we'd just drive out to the middle of nowhere and sit on the Impala for the night? Let's do it. You can't tell me you wouldn't appreciate some time off."

Sam sighs, contemplating the idea. The prospect of just driving and driving and not stopping for anything…Just Dean, the faithful Impala, and maybe a few cold beers for company…Dean was right. It'd be just like old times…

Except it would never be just like old times.

They could drive and drive and drive for hours, look at billions of stars, and drink themselves into oblivion. But none of that would change the fact that there was no going back. Angels, demons, death, heaven, hell…it would always be there, lingering in the backs of their minds.

"Sam?" Dean questions. _He must have asked me if I wanted to go. _"I'm not really into monologues here. I'm looking for an answer."

_Aren't we all…_

"Yeah," Sam responds, "I guess a break would be nice."

Dean pops up, putting his duffel bag on the bed and grabbing everything in sight to shove into it.

"So where are we headed?" Sam asks curiously.

Dean just smiles that 'I-have-a-secret' smile. And though Sam rolls his eyes, he inwardly acknowledges the warm tinge of familiarity that flutters deep in his chest.

**. . .**

"Are you taking us to the beach?" Sam asks curiously, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He'd fallen asleep hours ago, and it seemed as if Dean had driven through the night. Dean has dark smudges under his eyes speaking a tale of sleepless hours.

"Bingo," Dean replies, managing to shoot his brother a sly grin. "We're only about an hour out from the shore."

"Want me to drive?"

"Wouldn't dream of it, Sammy."

Sighing deeply, Sam settles back into his seat and follows the passing road with his eyes.

**. . .**

"Well, here we are, Sam. What do you think?"

Sam chuckles incredulously. Leave it to Dean to drive them halfway across the country just to see some trashy abandoned beach.

"This is your idea of the beach? Dean, you realize this place has probably been out of use for decades." Sam says, looking at the collapsed lifeguard chair and rusty 'Keep Out' sign on a nearby fence—also collapsed.

"Ah, Sammy, you need to learn to look past the surface. This place is perfect. No one around, just the sea and us. We can stay all night if we want to. That's the beauty of it. There's water and sand and a nice place to park my baby. What more could we ask for?"

Sam considers this before shrugging and walking toward the shoreline. He doesn't need to glance back to see Dean's triumphant grin.

Within minutes, the two are settled in the sand, drinks in hand, eyes on the horizon. Silence fills the air, but it's a comfortable silence, familiar. It's not the awkward silence of uncertain thoughts or the tense silence of an emotional argument. It's the soft silence of two brothers, alone but together, needing nothing but each other's presence, the rolling sea, and the night sky.

And Sam and Dean Winchester are soaking up the moment.

Sam leans back, arms outstretched behind him, holding his weight and digging into the sand beneath him. The gritty grains press into his skin with gentle force. He can feel the rough edges and scratched surface of each little particle. Each beaten little morsel. He can feel—Each. Broken. Little. Grain.

The rough specs feel suddenly sharp, digging into Sam's palms. He swears he can feel blood seeping from his hands into the sandy surface. Squeezing his eyes against the vague memories bearing down on his mind, he clenches his fists. Little morsels of sand slip through his fingers, sliding away and joining the sea of lookalikes.

These minuscule grains of sand have been crushed, tumbled, drowned, broken, worn down, and God knows what the hell else…But they're still there. Almost unseen, barely existing, yet _there_.

But how much more can the tiny grains take before they're diminished into nothing? What will it take for the infinitesimal granules to simply be gone?

Heaven? No. Hell? Apparently not.

How much more can they take?

How much _more_ can they _take_?

Sam swallows, trying to hold back the thoughts and emotions raging against the wall like a wave smashing against the shore. He can feel sand beneath his nails.

"Man, this is something else, Sammy." Dean's voice jolts Sam out of his thoughts. He looks over at his brother, who sets down his bottle. Dean's hazel eyes are far away, fixed on the rolling waves. Then, Dean turns his head toward Sam, a genuineness in the gaze that hits Sam like a 20-footer.

Sam nods silently, eyes locked with Dean's.

A small smile graces Dean's lips. Not the cocky grin Sam's sees on every hunt. Not the mischievous grin he saw a day ago, when Dean first thought of the trip. It isn't his fake grin or his secretive grin or his bitter grin or his 'you're dead' grin or even his 'this ain't so bad' grin.

This is a different one. This is a smile Sam hasn't seen in a very long time, one that happened a lot when they were younger and faded in frequency as life went on. As life beat them up.

This is Dean's happy grin. Dean is happy. Not fake-happy or grudgingly happy. Dean is genuinely _happy_.

Which, in spite of himself, makes Sam happy. Because yeah, maybe in life they'd drawn the shitty straw. Nothing has ever been easy, and they have to fight for every damn thing worth keeping. They've been crushed, tumbled, drowned, broken, worn down, and God knows what the hell else…

But they're still there.

Almost unseen, barely existing, yet _there_.

With no cajoling on his part, Sam's lips curl into a smile to match his brother's. He wipes his hands gently on his jeans, expelling the last of the sandy grains from his palms.

Yeah, life beat them up. And life probably won't stop beating them up, at least not for a while.

But they are _there_.

More importantly, they're _together_.

And if only for the moment, that's all that matters.


	5. The Bumblebee

**AN: Hey, guys! I'm freaking out (with excitement) about Friday, and wanted to get another chapter posted before the new episode airs, so here we are! A little on the short side, but I hope you all like it!**

**Thank you so much for the beautifully encouraging reviews, everyone! I can't even begin to describe how much they mean to me. It may seem silly, but all your kind words really make my day. I'm so grateful to be blessed with such wonderful, kind readers. Thank you all!**

**Shout-out to my reviewers: **_**xenascully, **__**TinTin11, **__**pandora jazz**__**,**__**Cainchan, Writing For The Wall, Tango Eight, BlueEyes444, Lujayn, sarahsrr, CeCe Away, KKBELVIS, **_**and**_** Marianna Morgan**_

* * *

THE BUMBLEBEE

"**Aerodynamically, the bumblebee shouldn't be able to fly, but the bumblebee doesn't know it so it goes on flying anyway."**

_**-Mary Kay Ash**_

For the third time that night, Sam wakes with a start, trembling with exhaustion and fear. He thinks it was a nightmare, must've been…but the content…the content was all too real.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice mutters groggily.

"Yeah," Sam whispers, voice raw and scratchy. Dean is up in a flash, the mattress beside Sam sinking in with his big brother's weight.

"Do you remember it this time?" Dean asks cautiously. _Please say no._

It's become routine. Sam wakes up with a horrible nightmare he can't recall, Dean wakes up a split second later and asks about it, and Sam just shakes his head, confused as to how something so gripping, so _terrifying_, could just slip past his memory like a cool breeze.

But now, for the first time in weeks, Sam nods in response. And that terrifies Dean more than he'll ever say.

"Well?" Dean says, trying to slow his frantically beating heart and feign casualness. "What was it about?"

Sam tries to clear his throat, but only manages to produce a small squeak as tears well in his troubled hazel eyes. "Death."

Dean's breath catches in his throat. _This can't be it. This can't be the moment. The wall was supposed to stay up….seventy-five percent…Please, no…_

"Death?" Dean says, raising his eyebrows, hoping his brother doesn't notice the quiver in his voice.

"Yeah," Sam responds quietly. "A bunch of people dying. People we knew. _Everyone_ we knew."

_Thank God….death, not Death. _It was memories of life, not memories of hell that were haunting his brother tonight. He briefly wonders what it says about their family when he feels relief at the mention of death in a general sense. But when compared to the alternative…

"Oh," Dean replies, eyes searching Sam's face. The younger man was still trembling, hazel orbs flicking nervously around. "You wanna talk about it, Sammy?"

There's a long span of silence, and Dean readies himself to repeat the question. His brother is breathing deeply, obviously trying to dispel whatever images were plaguing his mind.

Finally, Sam raises his face. His voice is rough and trembling as he speaks. "We've been through a lot of shit, Dean."

Having no response, Dean just nods thoughtfully.

Then, with a voice more vulnerable than Dean has heard in years, tinged with hopelessness he'd hoped he'd _never_ have to hear, Sam whispers brokenly, "It's not fair."

The breathy whisper crushes the dam of emotion in Dean's heart.

"I know, Sammy. I know," Dean murmurs, feeling tears in his own eyes. "But we're gonna get through this."

_We're gonna get through this._

At those words, Sam feels anger boil within him. It's not anger toward his brother, or even himself. It's the anger of realization. It's the eye-opening anger of newfound knowledge.

"Of course we will," Sam says bitterly. His eyes are dry now, and his posture is stiff…resigned. "We always do."

Sam gets it now.

It's as if they've been living their whole lives oblivious to the fact that they shouldn't be there. Sam and Dean's very existences don't simply ignore the natural order…they spit in its face. Time and time again, it's been proven to them that they shouldn't be living. Their presence disrupts all that is right, all that makes sense in the world. Yet time and time again, their messes are cleaned up, and they're left to repeat the cycle, none the wiser. No matter what they do, no matter how they screw up…they always get another chance.

Sam is sick of second chances.

All second chances bring are more broken pieces, and by now there's too many to put together again.

And it seems to Sam that no one else gets second chances but them. Even the people that die _because _of them don't get re-dos. They just get dead. He shudders as images from his nightmare flash through his mind.

Sam and Dean are stuck in a groundhog day of mistakes with no escape. They'll just keep living, keep suffering, keep dying, and keep coming back. There's no way out of the time loop. This isn't a Trickster's cruel hoax. This is their _lives_. And there's no escape.

They say a bumblebee shouldn't be able to fly, yet it does anyway because it doesn't _know_. But if it _did_ know, would it make a difference? It'd still have to fly, with or without that knowledge.

Knowledge is power. But knowledge isn't control.

Therefore, the cycle continues.

Strong arms wrap themselves around Sam's rigid frame. The embrace is expected and accepted. Sam allows his thoughts to slow and taper, unwilling to fixate on what can't be changed. It's never worked out in their favor before. Perhaps resignation is all that is left.

Dean holds his brother close, voice impossibly steady as he speaks into Sam's ear.

"It's ok, Sammy. It's gonna be ok, I promise. We're gonna get through this."

Sam listens. He hears. He's trying to believe.

"We're gonna get through this."

Dean speaks with the conviction of the most confident man in the world. His words are steel, leaving no room for uncertainty or doubt. He doesn't understand, but it's not his fault. Dean honestly believes it's true. That they're going to be ok. That they can brush themselves off, exchange a knowing smile, and move on.

"We're gonna get through this."

But Sam isn't sure he even wants to.


	6. The Silence

**AN1: Wahoo! Didn't think I was going to be able to do it, but I got this chapter out before Friday! I'm working on the next (and probably last) chapter as well, and I'm hoping that if I kick it into overdrive and my muse is cooperative, I can get that chapter out before Friday as well. Haha, we shall see! **

**AN2: This chapter was completely and totally inspired by **_**BlueEyes444**_**, a wonderful author and friend who provided me with the quote, and the support I needed. Thank you so much, M! It means the world to me! If you haven't read her stuff, I highly recommend it. This girl's got talent! **

**Shout-out to my reviewers: **_**xenascully, TinTin11, pandora jazz, Cainchan, Writing For The Wall, Tango Eight, BlueEyes444, Lujayn, sarahsrr, KKBELVIS, Marianna Morgan**_**, ****twomoms****, and **_**cxoxuxsxixnxsxSM**_

* * *

THE SILENCE

"**The silence was a blood-curdling scream of anguish, set out to break my soul."**

_**-Unknown**_

He's awake. He's awake and he knows it the moment he is. But something doesn't feel right.

Dean yawns and stretches as he blinks his eyes open. The bright light streaming through the motel curtains assaults his eyes, so he sits up, shielding his face as he takes in his surroundings.

He gets it now, why something felt off. For the past weeks, Dean has never woken up this late in the morning. Ever. It's become a routine of sorts. A horrible routine that neither Dean nor Sam want any part of. But they don't really have a choice in the matter.

In the middle of the night—every night—Dean is shocked into consciousness by the most piercing, gut-wrenching sound he can imagine. Sam's shallow, panicked breaths in combination with mind-numbing screams. Every night. Without fail.

Dean stumbles over to his brother's bed and squeezes Sam's shoulder, muttering meaningless words in his ear. He keeps up a steady stream of talking and squeezing, whispering and rubbing, until he sees hazel eyes open into his.

In those few seconds between dreaming and waking, Sam can't quite hide the terror and confusion oozing out of his hazel orbs. He recovers quickly, clearing his throat and blinking away the moisture in his eyes.

But Dean sees. Dean sees every damn time.

Then, they sit up for a few minutes and talk. About anything. Girls or cars or the hunt or the past. And Sam sips a glass of water. They pretend it's because he's thirsty, but they both know his throat is raw from screaming.

After that, they drift off to sleep, only to repeat the cycle once or twice more before waking in the morning.

It's their routine. It's heartbreaking, it's horrible. But it's their routine.

So when Dean sleeps through the night, and wakes late in the morning, he knows something is wrong. When Dean wakes to silence, he knows something is very wrong.

"Sam?" Dean questions, voice rough, trying to mask the concern.

"Right here," Sam replies. He's sitting at the small table to the right of his bed, numerous books open in front of him.

"Why'd you let me sleep so late?" Dean asks, pulling on a pair of pants and a fresh t-shirt.

Sam shrugs, eyes still glued to the pages in front of him. "You looked tired."

Dean narrows his eyes, examining his brother. Sam's face is tired, lips drawn into a tight line. His eyes are darkened, his posture slumped.

"You ok?" the elder brother questions. Finally, Sam looks up, pasting on a grin.

"Great, you?"

"Fine," Dean says cautiously. "So no-"

"Nope," Sam says, a little too quickly. His eyes avoid Dean's gaze. Just as Dean opens his mouth to argue, Sam hops up. "We should get going. I mean, I'm glad you got your beauty sleep, but it set us behind a few hours."

Dean decides not to push the subject, and stands up warily. "Yeah, ok. I'll start her up," he says, grabbing the keys off the nightstand.

A few minutes later, the boys are in the car, nothing but the rumble of the engine to fill the silent air.

. . .

That night, Sam and Dean return to the motel, a little bruised, but other than that, no worse for wear. Exhaustion creeps into their systems, and as soon as the door shuts, Sam and Dean are collapsed on their beds.

"Night, Sammy," Dean says, stifling a yawn and switching off the light.

"Night, Dean," Sam replies.

And with that, Dean is fast asleep, unknowingly the only one. After a few minutes, Dean's deep snores fill the room, and Sam is grateful for the noise. He sits up, stretching his back and limbs. It's going to be a long, just as the night before had been.

Sam hopes that Dean can get some more sleep, and that he doesn't notice Sam's lack of it. Sam hopes he can keep up the façade for long enough to purge the nightmares from his mind, both conscious and subconscious.

_I did it for more than a year, what are a few more weeks or months?_

Sam knows the logic is tenuous at best, but it's all he has.

Leaning back, Sam's mind runs through all the possible hunts he and Dean can tackle next. He'd get on the laptop, but the risk of waking Dean up is too big for Sam to take. He isn't like his brother. The only risks he takes are calculated, repentant. Dean is impulsive, reckless…brave. Even when all signs point to disaster, Dean takes the leap and risks everything…and in turn, gains everything he could ask for.

Sam sighs. He wishes he could be more like Dean.

If it wasn't for Dean's risk-taking, Sam knows he wouldn't be where he is. He would've died back in Cold Oak; he would've been killed on any of the hunts over the years. And right now, he'd be 'RoboSam' as Dean so kindly put it.

_Then again_, Sam thinks, shuddering at the images creeping into his mind. _Maybe some risks aren't worth taking._

"Sam?"

The voice startles Sam out of his reverie, and he whips around to face his brother, who's rubbing his eyes and looking at his brother questioningly.

"Why aren't you sleeping?" Dean asks carefully.

For once, Sam is at a loss for words, and all that greets Dean is silence.

"Sam? Why aren't you sleeping?" he asks again, more forcefully.

"I…I didn't…I thought you…you could use a little sleep," Sam responds lamely. _Smooth__, Sammy. Real smooth._

But instead of the heated reaction Sam expects, Dean just sighs, sadness flooding his eyes like a broken dam. Sam looks away. He can't bear to see the sympathy, the _understanding_ in his brother's eyes.

"Sam," Dean says, voice soft and gentle. _Damnit, his voice should never sound like that. I hate that I make him sound like that._

The elder Winchester moves to his brother's side, much like he's done in the past, when Sam wakes up from…

"Listen, Sam…You need to sleep. You just…you just do. I know it sucks, but we can work through it. What we _can't _work through is death by sleep deprivation. Just…sleep. I'll be right here, you know that. I'm not going anywhere. Just sleep, Sammy. Please."

Dean looks at his brother desperately, trying to make him understand. He could live with any problems or nightmares that came with Sammy. Because it meant that he had _Sammy_.

He can't live without Sam. He's tried. He's failed. And he's not doing it again.

Sam looks at his brother, and it's the broken desperation that does it for him. Dean doesn't plead. He doesn't beg. Except now.

Sam nods. "Ok. I'll try."

Within minutes, both brothers fall into an exhausted sleep.

A few hours later, Sam wakes up in the middle of the night, gasping out those soul-piercing screams that rattle both brothers to their very cores.

Dean is up in a flash, comforting his brother as best he can, like he always has. He hates the little part of himself that is relieved to wake up to something other than silence, but at the same time, he's just so damn glad to be hearing _something_. Still, Dean doesn't inquire about the content of the nightmares. He doesn't even mention it.

He's afraid to ask.

Sam accepts the support, but still doesn't tell his brother what he sees, never talks about his blurred perspective. He doesn't know if what he dreams about is real…it sure feels it…The death, the pain, the blood on Dean's face, the screams of Sam's victims. He hopes beyond all hope that it's just a nightmare.

All he really knows is that he doesn't want the images in his head anymore. He feels something inside of him, something broken, and it's ripping him apart, killing him. He wants it to end. But the constant stream of nightmares incapacitates him, paralyzes all other thoughts.

Is it real? Are his nightmares even nightmares at all?

He's afraid to find out.

After a few minutes, Sam is sipping his water and Dean is sitting on the side of the bed. But this time, they don't talk. There's nothing to say.

Sam and Dean sit, together yet separate in their pain, hand in hand with the silence.

Shaking off the dark images, Sam fights the sudden urge to laugh.

It's funny how, back in Cold Oak, Dean was willing to risk everything to keep Sam alive, to fight that deafening silence that plagued him in those fateful hours.

And now, Dean had risked everything to return Sam's soul, to fill the void of silence inside his baby brother.

…But Dean has left him dying in the process.


	7. The Glue

**AN1: I don't know that I've ever done it before! 2 updates in 2 days! I know it's not much considering how often other people update (Xe, you amaze me!), but I'm a bit proud that I actually did it. Not proud so much as…shocked. But anyway, enough blabbering!**

**Thank you all so much for your support! This idea started out as a thought and turned into a nervous inner debate (To post or not to post, that is the question). But I took the leap, and with all your wonderful support, kept the momentum going. I can honestly say that this story wouldn't have gotten past chapter 1 if it hadn't been for all your wonderful reviews and comments. Thank you all for the kindness and support!**

**Shout-out to all who reviewed the story:**

_**xenascully, TinTin11, pandora jazz, Cainchan, Writing For The Wall, Tango Eight, BlueEyes444, Lujayn, sarahsrr, KKBELVIS, Marianna Morgan**__**, twomoms, a**__**cxoxuxsxixnxsxSM, CeCe Away, Twinchester Angel, **_**and **_**Klutzygirl33**_

* * *

THE GLUE

"Damnit!" Sam yells, grabbing his shin and subsequently falling to the ground. Glaring at the nightstand responsible, tumbled over beside him, Sam grumbles and staggers to the bed.

"Everything ok out there, Samantha?" Dean shouts from the bathroom. Poking his head out the door, he grins amusedly. "Get in a fight with the nightstand, did you?" A small giggle escapes his mouth as Sam shoots him a bitchface.

"Shut up," Sam sullenly replies. "I didn't see it. Got up too fast." He doesn't mention the source of his instant awakening, the nightmarish images haunting even his ten-minute nap.

Dean pulls on some clothes and towels off his hair before he comes out. "Damn, Sammy," he says, eyebrows raised. He picks up the leg of the nightstand, crisply snapped off the rest of the fixture. "You really showed him!"

Sam rolls his eyes, snatching the object from his brother's hands. "Well, we can't just leave it like this, or else they'll charge us. Got any glue?"

"Don't think regular glue is gonna do it," Dean replies, eyeing the leg. "We're gonna have to go stronger than that."

"What did you have in mind?"

Dean thinks for a moment before nodding. "Epoxy."

"The kind you mix together? You have that just laying around?"

"Nah, but I can pick it up at the hardware store. Although…" Dean trails off thoughtfully.

"Although…?" Sam says, impatience evident in his tone.

"We're also gonna need a vice. But we don't have the cash or resources for that. Which means…" Dean grabs the rest of the nightstand and hands it to Sam, mischievous grin lighting up his features. "_You_ get to be our vice."

**. . .**

"How long am I gonna have to hold this for?" Sam asks wearily, holding the nightstand and its broken leg in each hand.

Dean sits next to him, already mixing the epoxy together, poised to spread. He shrugs, managing to smirk without twitching a muscle.

"It's gonna be awhile."

Sam sighs as Dean begins to goop the glue onto the leg of the nightstand. After a few seconds, he helps Sam fasten the leg firmly into place. "It's all you, little bro!" He says, releasing his grip on the object. Sam rolls his eyes and squeezes the pieces together.

"So," Dean says. And suddenly the smirk is gone from his words. "Now that we have a chance…I think we should talk."

Sam releases a breath and nods resignedly. He's got nowhere to go now. Might as well make the most of it.

**. . .**

Epoxy is a unique glue. It's one of the strongest in existence, and while having a broad spectrum of uses, it's also very specified. One must take the two exact substances that the glue is comprised of, mix them thoroughly, and use the small span of time allotted to use the glue. After that, it hardens onto a near-impenetrable material. Once the elements of the glue have bonded, nothing can reverse its effects. Though with years and wear, the surface may scratch or even crack, the two original substances will never separate. This aspect is part of what makes epoxy so appealing.

Apart, the substances are strong. Together, they're the strongest.

**. . .**

Almost an hour later, Sam and Dean are still sitting on the bed. Words and emotions still hang unbound in the air, but what needed to be said, what needed to be _felt_, was. Sam doesn't say everything. There are some things he still keeps inside, and will for a while. Maybe even forever.

But that's ok, because Dean doesn't say everything either. He's strong for his brother, but it breaks his heart. It kills him that he can't just make everything ok like he used to. Back before the world chewed them up and spit them out. Back before _Hell_ chewed them up and spit them out.

"Can I let go yet?" Sam asks, trying to ease the ache in his muscles.

"In a bit, Sam. Just a few more minutes."

All Dean wants to do is end Sam's pain and suffering, and he's trying so damn hard to do just that. Sam knows it. He knows how hard Dean is trying to make things ok again, to end the hurt, to stamp out the affliction.

But their life is based on pain and suffering.

Hugs and tears and talking can't change that. There will always be another obstacle to overcome, another wall to climb—or to leave untouched. Despite their most herculean efforts, Sam and Dean both know that the struggle will never end. It started with a fire and a baby, a determined big brother and a curse that no one asked for. And since that night, the struggle has ceaselessly continued. It cost them their family. At certain points, it had cost them each other.

But not this time. This time, Dean is there and Sam is Sam again, and nothing, not a fire or a curse or a world of pain and suffering, can take that away.

They won't let it.

**. . .**

"Ok, that should be good," Dean announces, glancing at the clock and outstretching his hands to take the newly repaired fixture from his brother.

Sam lets out a groan of relief as his arms loosen and un-tense. He releases his grip on the nightstand.

_Oh, crap._

Sam looks down at the tugging sensation coming from his lower chest.

_You've gotta be freaking kidding me._

Neatly pinched within the confines of the hardened glue is a small thread, trailing from the edge of Sam's shirt into the mix of epoxy and nightstand. No amount of tugging would set that sucker free.

_Spectacular. Spec-freaking-tacular._

Sam looks up, the most perfect expression of annoyance and forlornness on his face. It's the most beautiful bitchface his brother has ever seen.

Dean doesn't even try to hold back the laughter.

**. . .**

This whole time, Sam has been convinced that Dean is the glue holding their fucked-up family together. Dean is all that is good and decent and _right_ with _anything_. Those terrible days and months when Dean was dead—whether in a trickster's trap or Hell itself—Sam traveled down a dark path that he hoped to never see. He became a person he didn't recognize, and ended up hating who he was with, what he was doing. In those agonizing days and months, Sam began to hate himself. And part of him hasn't stopped. But Dean keeps that at bay. He keeps Sam human, in more ways than he can even imagine. Sam knows he doesn't deserve it, doesn't deserve _Dean_…but he has learned to be grateful all the same.

What Sam doesn't know, what he's never understood…is that Dean has always felt that Sam is the glue. Without Sam, Dean has nothing, _is_ nothing. His reason for being, his motivation for _life_ is to protect Sam, to be there for his Sammy. Without that, Dean is lost and hopeless and _empty_.

When Sam is gone, Dean loses his purpose. When Dean is gone, Sam loses himself.

What neither brother has ever considered is that they're both part of the glue that holds them together. But not the normal kind of glue. They're not any old Elmer's or Foster. They're epoxy.

Sam and Dean each give every part of themselves. The strength, the power, the vulnerability, the emotion, the obligation, the need, the want, the hope…They take every fiber in their beings and combine them. In doing so, they bond _themselves_. As cohorts, as associates, as heroes, as friends, as _brothers_.

Take all that strength and vulnerability, all that obligation and want, all that _hope_…And you get something more powerful than you ever could've imagined.

You get the Winchesters. You get Sam and Dean.

Apart, they're strong.

Together, they're insurmountable.

The road so far has been…well, _so damn far_. And some days, it's felt like all the heartache and memories and nightmares and pain have led to this anticlimactic conclusion of _nothing_.

But now, standing there, looking at his brother with his goofy grin and carefree eyes, Sam is starting to think that maybe that's ok. Maybe things are gonna be alright. That _they're_ going to be alright. Not perfect, but alright.

Not flawless, but together.

And he's starting to think that maybe that's all they can ask for.

* * *

**AN2: One of the middle parts of this chapter was totally inspired by a review left by **_**sarahsrr**_**. Sarah is a wonderful writer, a faithful reviewer, and a lovely friend. She wrote: **

"_**All Dean wants to do is end Sam's pain and suffering. And Sam knows it. But their life is based on pain and suffering."**_

**This struck me as so sad and so true, that I knew I had to include it somehow. I hope I worked it in ok, and I hope I made you proud, Sarah! Thanks for the inspiration, and thank you as always for the constant encouragement!**

**Thanks again, everyone! Here's to 6x12! Only one more night! :)**


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